скачать книгу бесплатно
A small black-and-white whirlwind sped across the slate floor, coming to a sliding halt at Charles’s feet. Bright brown eyes and a black button nose peered out from a mop of hair while a long pink tongue lolled nearly to the ground. Soft barking sounds told Charles he was loved.
Squatting down, Charles ruffled the dog’s long ears. ‘How have you been, Adam?’ The mutt of disreputable breeding looked up at him. ‘Very well, I take it.’ Charles glanced at Alphonse. ‘Has Adam been impertinent?’ Charles knew the answer.
‘But of course. He demands the best slices.’
‘Just like his namesake,’ Charles muttered, thinking of his sister Juliet’s new husband.
He loved this dog that had been a stray, even though he had named him after his unwelcome brother-in-law, who was also of dubious lineage. It had been one of his more subtle rebukes to his sister during her affair with Adam Glenfinning. As usual, it had done no good. Juliet had gone her own way.
For a moment the picture of Emma Stockton as she had looked on her porch not more than an hour ago flooded his mind. Her hair had spiralled from beneath the brim of her unfashionable straw hat. Her grey eyes had been challenging yet vulnerable, a trait he was beginning to find caught him off guard more than he cared. Even the freckles marching across her short nose in no pattern or order drew his admiration.
He shook his head to get rid of the portrait. He was not the sort of man to dwell overly long on a woman, particularly one who fit none of his criteria for beauty. She was too thin and too tall, along with everything else about her that irritated him.
‘Woof!’ Adam’s wet tongue on Charles’s hand came immediately after the demand for attention.
Charles stood. ‘You are a demanding scoundrel.’ The dog seemed to smile as though he knew there was no rebuke. ‘I am going to my office. Alphonse, please bring me something to eat.’
‘Yes, monsieur.’ There was a pause. ‘And what about that canine monster you spoil so shamelessly?’
‘He will need sustenance as well.’
‘Humph!’
Charles smiled as he left the kitchen. Alphonse might fuss and complain, but more than once Charles had caught the Frenchman accidentally dropping a piece of meat on the floor.
Adam trotted close at Charles’s heels, his sniffing getting louder as they neared the office. The room was near the kitchen so the tantalising smells made Charles realise he was as hungry as Adam. They would eat while he balanced his books, a duty that had started as tedious and which he now found satisfying.
It was nearly midnight that evening when Charles looked around and realised he had made a mistake. He had allowed his cronies to talk him into coming to Crockford’s gambling hell.
It was his first time in such an establishment in nearly three years.
Candles were everywhere, lighting a scene of licentious pleasure. Men lounged in chairs, bottles of liqueur beside them. A few demireps clung to the arms of their protectors. Several green-baize-covered tables were crowded by gamblers.
A man sat at a faro table with a visor over his eyes and his coat turned inside out, hoping for luck—or, perhaps, having luck. Charles knew all too well what the man was feeling: the thrill of waiting for that winning hand; the need to play again and again no matter what happened. It was like taking another sip of alcohol. The need intensified rather than diminished.
The urge to join a table was nearly overwhelming. All his hard-earned abstinence seemed like nothing. He should never have come.
His hands broke out in a sweat. Moisture beaded his brow.
He needed to leave.
He managed to smile at the man nearest him. ‘I have decided this place is a bore,’ Charles drawled, glad the need didn’t show in his voice. He sounded as bored as he claimed to be.
The other man raised one brown eyebrow. ‘As you wish, Charles. I will stay awhile. Crockford’s is known for its high stakes and I feel lucky.’
Charles smiled again. ‘Luck is a fickle lady.’
The man shrugged. ‘As is any woman.’
‘So be it.’
Charles took one last look around the crowded room, knowing as he did so that he tempted himself. But he also knew he was strong enough to resist. He had learned the hard way what ruin this vice could bring.
He turned away and sauntered toward the door. Several men watched him, a knowing look in their gazes. His downfall was not ton gossip, but nor was it secret. He nodded to acquaintances, determined that no one would know how hard this was for him.
A flurry of activity caught his eye just as he neared the exit. Some of the richest men in England circled a table more crowded than the others.
Charles knew someone was betting heavily and either winning or losing. He could not resist even though he knew that going over exposed him more than he should to the urge to gamble. Better not to even go near.
But go he did.
Faro. Sinclair Manchester was the bank and Richard Green was the lamb.
Memories flooded back. Five years ago he could have been Green.
Charles kept his face void of the anger and pain building in him. How dare Manchester fleece such a young boy?
Manchester was a tall, thin, effete man who dressed impeccably and seemed to mince when he walked. His silver-tipped ebony cane, which leaned against the wall behind him, was an affectation as effective as the quizzing glass hanging from his waistcoat. His sandy brown hair was cut in a perfect Brutus, the wisps dressed to frame his narrow and angular face. He was a dandy.
Charles considered himself a Corinthian. The two of them could not be a greater contrast. Particularly in the present situation. He turned to Green.
The boy’s blue eyes were wide, his pupils dilated. His blond hair was cut short like Charles’s, and his lapels were reasonable. He could turn his head. Perspiration dotted his brow. His smile was forced.
‘Charles,’ Manchester’s light tenor voice said, ‘come to pay us a visit? Join in. I am very lucky at the moment.’
Charles flicked him a glance. ‘Perhaps, later, Manchester.’ He turned to the young man. ‘Good evening, Green. I see you play deep.’ Charles watched the young man, wondering how he was going to get him out of this and deciding the sooner the better.
‘Y-yes.’ His stiff smile widened into a rictus.
‘Perhaps you shouldn’t.’ Charles turned back to Manchester. ‘If you will excuse us, Green and I have things to discuss.’
‘Really, Hawthorne, don’t be a wet blanket.’ Manchester raked in the chips piled before him.
‘Ah, but I must,’ Charles drawled, placing his hand on Green’s shoulder and squeezing as he shifted the boy away from the table.
‘Ah, ex-excuse me.’ Richard Green went where Charles steered him, but said over his shoulder, ‘I will make my vouchers good tomorrow, Manchester.’
A twinge of pain caught Charles unawares. Seeing this youth, not yet a man and no longer a boy, in such a pass brought back unpleasant memories of where his reckless disregard for money had eventually landed him. Gambling deeply was only for those who had been left a fortune, not a younger son. The discomfort was enough to make him thrust Green roughly toward the door so the boy stumbled before gaining his footing.
‘Keep moving,’ Charles said through clenched teeth. ‘You are not staying here.’
Green’s eyes widened until they seemed to be two blue china saucers. ‘But, the night has just started.’
‘Be quiet.’ Charles scowled at the young man. ‘You are foolish beyond bearing.’
‘I-I s-say, you c-can’t order me about.’
Charles’s brows rose. ‘Can’t I? I am doing so and you will thank me for it.’
The boy’s red face blanched. ‘You are Charles Hawthorne?’
‘Yes, and you are on your way out.’
He realised Green had been so deep in the fever some people experienced while gambling that the boy hadn’t heard Manchester’s greeting. The realisation increased Charles’s anger. He propelled the youth toward the front door and through to the street.
‘I hope your carriage or horse is nearby because you are leaving.’
‘I—’
‘Yes?’ Charles held him. ‘You what?’
‘You go too far. You have no right to do this.’
The young man’s words finally penetrated the red haze that seemed to surround Charles. He unclenched his fingers that gripped the boy’s arm like a vise and let his hand fall away. Seeing this child in straits he had been in and paid dearly for had made him forget the circumstances. All he could do was throw the fool out.
‘You are going home, Green. You play deeper than your pockets. This is a gambling den, not a shearing house.’
The youth drew himself up straight, coming just short of Charles’s six-foot height. ‘I will do as I please.’
‘Not if I have any say.’ His flat voice brooked no argument. ‘And a word of warning. You may think you are immune to the repercussions of your behaviour, but you are not. No one is.’
Seeing a hackney coach coming around the corner, Charles motioned for it to stop. The driver pulled up and Charles yanked open the door and pushed Green inside.
‘Go home.’
He slammed the door shut and turned away, ignoring the boy’s sputtering anger. If only someone had done as much for him.
Chapter Four
A my tweaked Emma’s paisley shawl. ‘When are you going to get new gowns? These are so old-fashioned.’
Emma pulled the shawl over her shoulders and kept moving toward an open settee in Princess Lieven’s ballroom. She was not about to give Amy the satisfaction of seeing that her comment had hurt. Amy knew why Emma had no new gowns.
Amy was peeved because Emma had refused Charles Hawthorne’s offer to escort them here. The man was too brazen. He wasn’t family, and his bringing them would have set tongues wagging. Especially after the ride in Hyde Park yesterday.
She reached the seat and sank down with a thump. Graceless, but she didn’t care.
Amy sat beside her, careful to spread the skirt of her pink muslin gown so it wouldn’t wrinkle. ‘You ignored me.’ Her tone and posture were a challenging pout.
Emma swallowed a sharp retort. Her voice was still more acerbic than she intended. ‘You know why, Amy. So don’t vent your displeasure over something we both know can’t be helped.’
‘Humph!’
Amy angled away, her back an unyielding wall between them. For an instant, Emma raised her hand to touch her sister’s shoulder. All they had was each other. Then she let her arm fall. For once she wasn’t willing to be conciliatory. She was tired and worried and wanted to be done with all this. She didn’t want to apologise for something that wasn’t her fault.
Amy stood abruptly. ‘I am going to find Julia Thornton.’
For a second Emma considered telling Amy to remain. Then she shrugged. Denying Amy would only make her more rebellious. At least Julia would have her mother with her or be surrounded by a bevy of young men and women closer to Amy’s age.
As Amy flounced away, Emma turned her attention to the other guests just as Charles Hawthorne made his bow to their hostess. Sensation chased down Emma’s spine. She told herself there was a draft. The man had offered to escort them here. It shouldn’t be a surprise to see him, and there was no other reason for the funny feeling that engulfed her.
Nor should it be a surprise to see him make his way toward her. He likely thought Amy would be back immediately.
Emma watched him in spite of all her good sense. He was the most sensual man she had ever seen. Everything about him indicated that he was a rake. His black hair with the lock that insisted on falling over his forehead made him look like a pirate—or what she imagined a pirate would look like. His broad shoulders swung loosely in a well-fitted evening jacket. His muscular legs with their long length and strong shape showed to perfection in tight-fitting breeches. He was perfect.
‘Enjoying something?’ He stood before her with a sly smile on his sharply handsome face.
She jolted and blinked and wondered where her common sense had gone as she gave him a curt nod. ‘Mr Hawthorne.’
He made a perfect leg. ‘Miss Stockton.’
Her eyes narrowed at his mocking tone. ‘What brings you here, Mr Hawthorne? My sister is elsewhere.’
‘So she is, Miss Stockton.’
Emma felt her temper sizzle, intensifying the warmth spreading across her cheeks. ‘Then you had best be on your way.’
‘I thought I might linger here.’ He indicated the empty spot by her.
The breath caught in her throat, and she forced herself to speak coldly. ‘I think you would be very bored, Mr Hawthorne.’
‘I think not.’
Without further leave, he sat beside her. His thigh barely brushed hers, bringing back the uncomfortable awareness of him that made her chest tight. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Emma tensed to rise but his hand clamped on her forearm. She paused.
‘Do you want to give the gossips more ammunition?’ he murmured.
She glanced around to see many eyes on them. She sank back down and muttered, ‘How dare you put me in this position. It is bad enough that you do this with Amy. It is a shame you insist on including me in this mockery.’
He quirked one eyebrow. ‘Why do you think this is a mockery?’
‘Isn’t it?’
He didn’t speak for long moments, his gaze meeting hers. ‘I don’t believe so.’
She told herself her heart wasn’t lodged in her throat. A warm glow started in her stomach and spread out. ‘Well, I do. I told you no earlier, and you are not a man who likes to be told no. I believe you are amusing yourself at my expense and I want this to stop.’
‘Then dance with me and I will leave afterwards.’
‘Absolutely not.’ Particularly as she recognised the music the orchestra was starting to play. A waltz.
He shrugged. ‘Then I will go and ask Miss Amy.’
Emma blanched, knowing her sister would accept to spite her and to accomplish a coup that would make her the envy of all the other silly young chits. A waltz with Charles Hawthorne.
Emma felt like she had been outmaneuvered, and she knew she was outgunned. ‘Surely you jest. It is my sister you are interested in.’
For a fleeting moment she thought he looked disgusted, but it was over so quickly she decided she had imagined it. He looked his usual arrogant, confident and mocking self.
